Eventually, I will do an actual photo tour of my apartment. You can catch a glimpse of the bare bones here and here, but it’s come a long way since then and is starting to feel like an actual home. It takes me a long while to get settled in, partially because I’m horribly unorganized, but also because I’m picky about my stuff. I don’t have expensive taste; it’s actually quite the opposite. I adore found items, hand-me-downs, and everything ancient. Almost everything in my apartment is old, down to the brick walls that house them. My furniture and decor are all from my mom’s consignment shop, flea markets, Brimfield, thrift shops, the side of the road. Barely any of the furniture was bought new, save for my bed frames and sofa – which will eventually be replaced by something ancient and full of history.

I’ll save the rest of my stories for when I have actual photos with which to display them, and keep to the two pieces you see here. The large trunk beneath was Bobby’s grandfather’s, and the one on top was given to us when we lived at our first Brooklyn apartment. We lived in an area surrounded by warehouses, and one of them housed vintage stuff for a flea market seller. When he closed up shop, he gave us a 50s kitchen table, antique chairs, this trunk, and several vintage odds and ends that we still have today. At the time, I was broke, broke, broke, so it was like a dream come true. Actually, it would be a dream come true even if I was the richest gal in the world. Give me millions of dollars and I will still take the old over the new. I got that from my mama.